


The Wild Hunt

by Sarai of Umardelin (anissa7118)



Series: Teach Me How to Fight, I'll Show You How to Win [5]
Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 04:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12449511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anissa7118/pseuds/Sarai%20of%20Umardelin
Summary: As winter deepens, Jareth and Sarah decide to partake of an ancient tradition among the fae.





	The Wild Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place after the end of _And My Kingdom as Great_ , and before the final novel-length story in our Labyrinth trilogy. It’s finally getting cooler where we are, and a story like this that takes place in deep winter certainly appeals. We both hope that you will enjoy this tale.
> 
> Unfortunately, we’re posting it this week because Sarah’s coronation in _Kingdom_ is giving our muses fits. We will post that chapter next week, but then there’s going to be a long hiatus as we work on one of our original ideas for NaNoWriMo. I’m sorry to leave you here – we’d hoped to have Kingdom finished by November, but real life intervened as it so often does.  
>  Don’t worry, we’re not abandoning Labyrinth fic and fandom. This story only hints at some of the things you’ll see in the final tale of the trilogy. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with us!

The winters in New York tended toward gray, slushy misery, though there were a few days early in the season of sparkling white snow and crisp cold air. Sarah went walking in Central Park on one of those days, the trees standing bare and black about her like inky fingers reaching for the sky. It was almost a picture-postcard-perfect winter’s day, except that she walked alone with her breath frosting before her.

She didn’t _say_ she wished she had someone to share the day with, but she thought it. And thought was apparently enough, these days. The key at her throat grew warm, and the playful breeze suddenly sparkled with more than snow. Jareth was beside her, dressed for New York in a long black coat, a metallic blue scarf wrapped around his throat. “My Queen,” he purred, moving close to slip his arm around her waist. “You summoned me?”

“Not quite,” she admitted, leaning into him. “It’s a gorgeous day, and I wanted someone to share it with. Figured you’d do.”

Jareth hummed appreciatively. “Not near so lovely as the one who names it so, skin fair as the snow, hair dark as the winter wood, and eyes agleam like deep ice.”

“Flatterer,” Sarah teased. “Reminds me of Snow White, a fairy tale about a girl described that way, but it was lips red as blood.”

“I know it,” Jareth said. “In that tale, the mother claims for her unborn daughter the attributes she sees when she spills blood onto the snow. For you, my precious Sarai, I would have said ‘lips red as winter-berries’. They are only _mildly_ poisonous, and the effect is similar to your beloved caffeine.”

She couldn’t help it; the comparison made Sarah throw her head back and laugh. “So I’m toxic, you think?”

“In the same way that alcohol is toxic. A man must be well-prepared if he intends to indulge in so heady a vintage as you.”

“Good save,” Sarah said, elbowing him lightly in the side.

They walked together in companionable silence for a few moments, alone in the cold park. After a while, Jareth said in a low, contemplative voice, “Blood on the snow… Perhaps it is time, again. After all, my curse is broken and I have my queen…”

“What are you muttering about?” Sarah asked.

“A grand tradition of my kind, of which I have not partaken in … longer than I care to measure. Tell me, in your research, have you learned of the Wild Hunt?”

That put a chill up Sarah’s spine that had nothing to do with the winter temperature. “I have … isn’t it dangerous for a mortal?”

“Oh, there have always been a few mortals who dare to ride with us,” Jareth said. “So long as they mind their manners, they are permitted. It’s even thought that they bring luck to the hunt. And in any case, you, Sarah, are not precisely mortal any longer.”

Her hand tensed in his, remembering. As with everything else among the fae, there were repercussions to their actions, and with his ring on her finger came a measure of his immortality. The thought frightened her when monsters and magic could not. Jareth drew her close and kissed her raven hair. Searching for something to say, Sarah asked softly, “What’s this about the Wild Hunt?”

“I thought it might be time that Umardelin rode out with them again,” Jareth told her. “The hunt itself is a long, cold ride, on the night of the winter solstice, but it is beautiful as well. My parents will be there, of course.”

Sarah had met Jareth’s parents, and liked them both. That would be reason enough, but she suspected more. “And what’s the political significance of Umardelin’s monarchs riding with the Wild Hunt?”

“Doing so proclaims we are monarchs worthy of the name, and says we are ready and willing to take our place amongst the rest of fae royalty. It would mean entering the delicate dance of power … but even choosing not to dance is a move in that particular game.” Jareth held her close, kissing her forehead. “Umardelin is not a great power, though those who wield such are chary of offending it. The realm of goblins and bogs and a Labyrinth unmastered by any king or sorcerer, it is not a kingdom of great prestige. However … it is not a realm one ignores. Can you guess why?”

Sarah cuddled into him, thinking. “Because the king’s occasionally a thoughtless braggart?” she offered at last.

She felt the shake of his ribs as he laughed softly. “No, love. I said nothing of Umardelin’s king, nor of its queen, only the land itself. What is it we have that no other realm does or even can?”

Sarah tried to think like a military strategist, about resources and weapons. She remembered cannons and gunpowder, as much a danger to the goblins as to her little band of besiegers. If not for their armor … and she gasped. One of the legends about the fae _was_ true, enough so that they had avoided human realms for centuries. “The goblins wear iron armor,” she whispered. “And they have steel and iron weapons. Jareth, the goblins are about the only fae who are immune to iron!”

“And so are you, for now,” he told her. A whisper of foreboding ran down her spine, and she cuddled closer to him, wrapping herself up in him. Jareth continued, “The Labyrinth itself makes a more than adequate defense against intruders, as well. Umardelin is spoken of poorly by the higher realms, but you know now that the fae mock what we fear. Umardelin _could_ be taken by force, I am not so great a fool as to think us unassailable … but it would be expensive. Too much so for any to try, so long as we behave. Bow to the High King and Queen, pay our tithe, show respect for our ‘betters’.”

“Okay, so crashing their party is behaving?” she said, a trifle sharp.

“Crashing it would be misbehavior. But all the royalty of the realms are invited to ride. If we do so, we show that we are willing to be part of the dance again, to follow our measured steps nicely. Not to attend might send a more dangerous message, that we consider ourselves apart from them, and I have no wish to have such as the High King think me rebellious.”

Sarah mulled over that. “Does your mother know you’re thinking about doing this?” His father, Deruthiel of Etaron, would know in due time, but in her first meeting with them Sarah had divined that the power in that relationship was Cadelinyth. She was more of the blood royal than he, and had more magic. At the same time Della – as she preferred her friends to call her – was more … ‘progressive’ wasn’t the right word, but it was close. Less hidebound to tradition, more willing to question centuries of lore. Still, she would know instantly whether this was too bold a move.

“Mother and I discussed it briefly,” Jareth said. “She said I should only go if you were at my side, which I had not thought of attending without you.”

A brief nod as Sarah thought. “What about your grandmother? Does _she_ know?”

Jareth’s grandmother, Cadelinyth’s mother, was Queen Iswyniel the Sorceress of Astolwyr, a lady of high blood and truly great magic. Sarah had not yet met her, though she’d been told how furious she was at the foolish mistake that had gotten Jareth exiled to Umardelin. Iswyniel moved in somewhat the same circles as the High King himself, though she was known to be as independent as it was possible to be. She’d married her seneschal, after all, rather than some eager prince.

Jareth sighed. “If Mother has not already discussed it with her, I will. She rides to the Wild Hunt each year, of course.”

“I don’t know how pleased she’ll be to see us,” Sarah warned. “Much less what anyone else will think of your human queen.”

He chuckled. “Sarah, Sarah. Do you think yourself the first mortal to have married into fae royalty? My grandfather is an _owl_.”

“A fae owl transformed into a man is a bit different than a human from Aboveground,” she protested. “The human daughter of an actress, a commoner from Above. I’m sure your blue-blooded grandmother will be thrilled.”

“Sarah. _She married her bird._ I doubt she will look askance at you for being human. She may think you foolish for loving such a great idiot as her grandson, but she would think so of anyone at my side. Besides, Mother loves you, and Grandmother cherishes her opinion. She will not dissuade us from riding out.”

She gave a long pause, breathing in the scent of him, faintly spicy in ways that had nothing to do with cologne. At last, Sarah said quietly, “Are you sure about this?”

“I am certain only of my love for you,” Jareth replied, as softly. “But I am quite sure. It is time. Umardelin should ride with the rest of royalty.” A deep breath, and he drew back to look at her. “Which begs the question. _Do_ you know how to ride to hounds, Sarah?”

 

…

 

The answer to that involved riding lessons for her. Sarah had ridden often in the Labyrinth, but always at a sedate pace. She’d learned to ride in her teens, as part of her medieval princess phase, and had even ridden sidesaddle. Jareth vetoed that, however. “To ride sidesaddle is one thing, to hunt sidesaddle is quite another. Mother rides astride, as should you. It will be no scandal, Sarah, only good sense.”

That left her time to practice over fences, something she’d barely begun when her fascination with horses had given way to some other interest. Sarah quickly learned to balance and trust her mount, and the soaring moment of suspension felt like flying. Jareth went with her at first, watching the instructor work on the finer points.

Once, after her lesson, she and her mentor found him standing at the pasture rail, with every horse on the farm gathered close around him. Jareth had leaned forward, not to pet the closest horse, but to rest his forehead against the great broad skull of what the instructor whispered was the lead mare of the herd. They simply stood like that, quiet except for their breath and the switching of a few horses’ tails, until Sarah sneezed from the hay dust and put the scene back into motion. Her instructor didn’t mention the incident, but Sarah caught her watching Jareth curiously until he had to make excuses not to come with her.

Jareth put her ahorse more often on her trips to Umardelin, and fae horses were more spirited than the ones she’d learned to ride. Jareth told her they were the same species, that there were fae steeds in the bloodlines of some horses in the human world and vice versa, but that horses Underground wore their domestication more lightly. The fae were more in tune with beasts and could win their cooperation without needing to breed for docility. Sarah learned to ride with a light hand, coaxing more than commanding, and she and Jareth cantered through the meadows and forests of the Labyrinth, leaping whatever obstacles appeared. Once she jumped a log that started moving when she approached, and Jareth laughed that they had perhaps finally frightened the giant serpent out of this section of their realm.

The winter solstice at last arrived, after almost two months of winterish weather in New York. For Sarah, it was four days before Christmas, and as the light faded she touched the key at her throat and stepped through her mirror to the castle.

Cold in the Labyrinth, too, colder than she’d expected. Her breath steamed, and she feared her riding clothes would not be warm enough. Jareth met her, helping her into the split skirt and embroidered bodice, then covering it all with a thick, warm cloak in deep burgundy velvet a few shades darker than the dress. He wore the gunmetal blue he favored, lighter in his hunting jacket and darker in his own cloak. Both of them had high black boots with ornamental silverwork around the toes and tops. Their horses, too, wore silver-decorated tack, though their own matched dapple gray coats were just as lovely as any ornamentation. They went armed, though Jareth told her it was highly unlikely they’d use those weapons: a short silver-tipped lance for him, a crossbow for her, with which she had also been practicing these last weeks.

Last were masks: the dark goblin mask for him, though with horns swept back, and a white owl mask for her. The rest of the hunt would also be masked, part of the tradition of this night. Sarah cradled that mask in her hands and bit her lip, looking up at him. “Can I tell you something?” she asked in a small voice.

“Always,” came his swift reply.

“ _Without_ you mocking me,” she added.

Jareth stopped, and lowered his mask, touching her chin. “I shall not mock you. Speak, Sarai, my queen.”

“Everything just … the coronation was one thing, the betrothal was the same thing; they could laugh behind their hands but they couldn’t _do_ anything. This, it’s the High King, all of a sudden it’s _real_ , all of it is real, and I’m scared,” she finally managed to say.

He hugged her close. “Sarah, do not fear. I have learned my lesson about insulting high royalty. And you are far too gracious by nature to do so.”

“It’s still there, Jareth. It’s still there and we don’t know the fallout. He may not have forgiven you yet.”

“He more likely does not remember, nor care if he does,” Jareth countered. “There are more heinous insults than I delivered, and more vile traitors. He surely knew the moment the curse was broken, and he sent no message.”

“The fae are vengeful, and do not forget offense,” Sarah said. “I learned that in my research, and you’ve said it yourself.”

“My parents and grandparents will be there. Besides, the Hunt is not a time to settle old grudges. The worst that can be done is we could be denied permission to ride – and that would be a very great insult to us, indeed. The sort even a High King would be chary of giving.”

Sarah sighed through her nose. “An insult to us … what would that mean to Umardelin? It’s not just the two of us we’ve got to worry about. It’s the kingdom, too.”

“The king and queen are the kingdom,” Jareth told her, as he had more than once. “I daresay the land and the Labyrinth would take umbrage. We shall see what will happen. We cannot turn back now, Sarah.”

She took another moment to settle herself, forcing herself to a semblance of calm as the horses snorted and stamped in the frosty air. “Fine. We ride.” A breath, and then, “God, I hope you’re right.”

A flash of Jareth’s arrogance as he told her, “I usually am,” and then he helped her step up into the saddle as she hotly denied it. As he turned to mount his own horse, she kicked him lightly in the rear with the toe of one boot, to emphasize her point.

Jareth only laughed as he mounted up, and then Sarah bit her lip again. “You do realize I’m going to be the only human there, right?”

“Perhaps not,” Jareth said. “Some do join our ride. And there are others who married fae, though it has been some time since such a match. Sarah, stop quibbling. Let us go.”

She grumbled under her breath at him, but matched his pace. At the end of the courtyard was an arched trellis where he’d woven a spell to take them to the meeting-place of the Wild Hunt.

“At least _one_ of us has to worry,” Sarah muttered, and then they stepped through the spell.

 

…

 

Cold, colder than she’d ever imagined, and Sarah huddled in her cloak as her breath smoked in the air. Jareth murmured, gloved hand touching hers, and she warmed a little, the horse under her stretching as whatever heating spell he’d cast blanketed it as well. They all steamed in this impossible frozen place.

They were in an open meadow, the grass crinkling with rime under their horses’ hooves. Jareth rode forward calmly, Sarah close at his side, as the masked fae milled about sorting themselves out for the hunt. Here and there fae in emerald hunting coats strode on foot, ushering about large white hounds with red ears and dark eyes.

She didn’t get the sense that they were being stared at – not quite. More like sideways glances from beneath masks, though there were no comments that she heard, and in the cold air sound would travel crisply. As did Cadelinyth’s voice, calling “Welcome!” as she rode to them on a red roan stallion.

Sarah couldn’t help a sigh of relief. The queen of Etaron had dressed in fox colors, black gloves and boots, white riding dress with the same sort of split skirt as Sarah, and a russet coat and cloak. She was masked as a fox as well, silver vines twining about the laughing muzzle of the beast. Beside her came Deruthiel on his heavier horse, masked like a hound, and Jareth chuckled at the pair of them.

“Lovely mask, Sarah dear,” Della said, taking Sarah’s hand.

“I’m not quite sure what inspired it,” Sarah said with mock thoughtfulness, provoking another chuckle from the queen. At last Sarah smiled, as Jareth greeted his parents and the four of them mingled in a small open space amid the crowd.

When Della leaned in her saddle to kiss Sarah’s cheek, she murmured, “Don’t be so nervous, love. All will be well.”

Any reply Sarah would’ve made was silenced by the arrival of a fae woman riding sidesaddle, and wearing a mask that looked made of ice crystals. The eyes that looked out of it were the same blue as Della’s, and on her padded shoulder rode a barn owl who rather spoiled her intimidating affect by having drawn up one foot and fallen asleep. “Grandmother, Grandfather,” Jareth said, bowing from the waist in his saddle.

The sorceress inclined her head and looked to Sarah; the bird on her shoulder roused its feathers and chirruped. Sarah knew the story: how Iswyniel had ruled alone by the strength of her magic, until she needed a servant. How she had healed a wounded barn owl and turned him into a man, bound to her service by a debt of life. How that man, called Jarrek, had become her seneschal, and eventually her husband. It was from Jarrek that Cadelinyth and Jareth drew the ability to shapeshift into owls.

Still, the sheer beauty of the bird drew her, and Sarah found herself charmed in a way no human or fae ever could. Some of that must’ve shown in her face, because Jarrek stood up high and twittered at her cheerfully. Sarah smiled and laughed a little under her breath; this was her life now, being introduced to the wild owl that was her grandfather-in-law. “Pleased to meet you both,” she said, remembering manners.

“And we, you,” Iswyniel said in a voice like the frost itself. That made Sarah’s smile fade, until the fae woman smiled at her. “Pray forgive my husband. Changing back and forth takes a toll on him, and he insists feathers are warmer than cloaks.”

“They are,” Cadelinyth chipped in, and her mother looked at her with an expression Sarah had seen Karen give Toby a few hundred times.

“Hush, child,” Iswyniel said. “Jarrek likes you, girl, and he is oft a better judge of character than I. So be welcome, and be not afraid.”

“Her name is Sarah, grandmother,” Jareth said, quiet but firm.

“Aye, and your grandfather the excellent judge of character thinks you too bright for your own good, boy. I know the girl’s name, and she takes no insult in being called what she is. I was a queen when her ancestors were still crusading in the name of their god.”

“Oh, Mother,” Della sighed. “Sarah may be a stripling by our years, but in human reckoning she is a woman grown. Do be polite.”

“She’s wise enough to pick her battles, too,” the old queen said. “Come, Sarah. Be not afraid. I am bold enough to say what all these think, and dare not speak: you are the only one here who could have a steel blade in your boot. If anything, _they_ should be afraid of _you_.”

“That’s not what we want,” Sarah replied immediately.

That icy mask cocked sideways, echoed by the owl on her shoulder. “Using the royal ‘we’ already, little Sarah?”

“We, as in Jareth and I,” Sarah said. “And we, as in Umardelin.”

“So it’s true. The land has taken you for its ruler.”

“It is, Grandmother,” Jareth put in. “I had no choice but to beguile her into accepting my pledge, or else lose my rank.”

Without thinking about it, Sarah kicked at his ankle, making his horse shy. “Oh, _stop it_ ,” she growled, then immediately winced at her display of temper.

To her surprise, Iswyniel laughed. “I see you’ve gotten exactly what you deserve, you obstreperous young buck. I rather liked her on Jarrek’s account, but now you may have my blessing in all things.”

“I told you you’d like her,” Della said, and Deruthiel leaned forward to cradle his face in his palm. Sarah couldn’t help feeling sorry for him; between his wife and his mother-in-law, he had a great deal of impertinence and impatience to deal with.

A silence fell on the gathered fae, and Iswyniel turned her horse to look behind her. The rest faced that way as well, and Sarah’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. A huge black horse moved toward them, standing taller than any other mount in the company. Taller even that the Clydesdales she’d seen once as a child. It was bedecked in silver barding that _moved_ , twining in complicated patterns across the royal purple leather. And on that horse’s back rode a fae masked like a stag, great sweeping antlers arching up and back, silver chains and precious gems hanging from their points. The cloak he wore was blindingly white fur, gathered at his throat by a silver brooch shaped like a leaf. Sarah knew this _must_ be the High King of all the fae, as all those between them cleared a path, bowing from their saddles.

Deruthiel and Cadelinyth flanked Sarah and Jareth, Iswyniel a little ways in front of them. She stood quietly as the High King approached, and when he stopped before her, the sorceress inclined her head politely. “Welcome, Your Majesty, and blessings to the hunt,” she said.

“Greetings, cousin,” he said in a voice that was utterly inhuman. He sounded like an instrument made to shape human words, like a waterfall whose muted thunder mimicked speech. And even Sarah could feel the magic swirling about him.

Somewhere in Sarah’s head, a panic-rat was gnawing at her brain. That hadn’t sounded like the casual sort of ‘cousin’ she’d heard before, from fae trying to imply an ingratiating relationship; it sounded like a fact. _Cousin?_ _**Cousin?!** _ _Jareth, what did you_ _**do** _ _? You never mentioned that!_ She glanced at Della, who only smiled beneath her mask.

Never had all of the weirdness and wildness of her new life felt so real. She’d broken a curse and done a little magic, but now it was brought home to her. She was bedding a fae king, betrothed to him as well, and all of the machinations of human politics would be child’s play to these nigh-immortal beings. Sarah tried to swallow, but her throat made only a dry click.

Della, Deruthiel, Jareth, and Sarah all bowed in unison as the High King looked past Iswyniel at them. “Etaron, you are welcome,” he said in that strange voice. And then Sarah felt the weight of his gaze on her, and couldn’t breathe.

“Umardelin,” he said, and the silence went even deeper. “It has been long since you rode with us.” Sarah was torn between keeping her gaze down, not wanting to give offense, and wanting to cut Jareth a sharp look to warn him not to do anything stupid.

He kept silent, and after a moment the High King continued, “It is good to have you back among us, Jareth King of Umardelin. And to see your queen at your side.”

“Queen and Champion, Sire,” Jareth said, in the most respectful voice Sarah had ever heard from him. “The Labyrinth chose her.”

“Then it is better still to have that magic under hands of its own choosing,” the High King remarked. “Be welcome, Sarai of Manhattan, Queen and Champion of Umardelin.”

The shock of that – Sarai of _Manhattan!_ – startled a smile to her lips and made her eyes fly up to his. In other circumstances, she would’ve barked laughter, or wondered how the hell he knew her name already, and from whence she’d come. The gravity of the moment silenced her, and it was as well.

His eyes when she met them were cool as a stone under flowing water, ancient and wise. There was nothing human in them, and she remembered once at a zoo looking into the eyes of a tiger. The great cat had glanced at her lazily, then yawned and groomed its gorgeous pelt, dismissing her as beneath notice … but she knew that had there been no glass between them, it could have swatted her to death in one stroke. Or it could have ignored her completely, and nothing she could do would affect its choice. The High King’s eyes had that detachment, and that casual strength.

She bowed again, and managed to murmur, “I am most honored, Your Majesty,” remembering never to thank the fae.

The High King’s horse turned at some invisible signal, and he rode away. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, except perhaps Iswyniel. “I take that to mean you’re forgiven, boy,” she said.

“And that he approves of Sarah,” Della put in.

Iswyniel cut a glance to her daughter, as Sarah caught her breath and tried to stop her heart from thundering. “Have you forgotten the old stories, daughter mine? When he was young, he loved a mortal, once. She chose not to partake of his life, and her years to his were as the flowering of a single rose beside a redwood tree. Eventually his grief lessened, and he wed again, this time to a fae woman who is now our High Queen, long may she reign. I do not know what stirs in his heart at the sight of a mortal woman who will marry one of us, but it would still be wise to keep out of his notice.”

That old story, which apparently only contemporaries knew, reminded Sarah, and she punched Jareth once in the shoulder while his family was too close about them for the rest to see. “By the way. _Cousin?!_ Thanks for telling me _that_ , jackass.”

Jarrek burbled a happy chirp that sounded like a laugh, and Cadelinyth snickered. It was Iswyniel who answered. “We are all cousins, if you go back far enough. He and I are … third cousins twice removed, if I recall correctly. It means nothing, save that he chooses to honor me by remarking the relation.”

“And by extension, indicate that we all are not in particularly bad odor with the High Court. For once,” Deruthiel added.

“Father, it was _one_ play, for which I paid quite enough penance,” Jareth sighed.

“There were others who paid a higher cost,” Deruthiel said sternly.

“At least their sentences were limited. Mine lasted half again as long as any of theirs.”

“And your pretty friend who played _her_ lost his life,” Iswyniel said, her voice sharp as fractured ice. “It should have only been a humiliation, a century eating flies and worms, but for a heron that stalked their garden, a garden that _should_ have been warded against such. Herons rarely prey on toads, in any case, preferring frogs and fish. No, that was _her_ vengeance, and had you played her role, you too would have lost your life. One way or another.”

“As I am well aware,” Jareth said.

“It was long ago, and since you broke the curse, one may safely assume you’ve learned better,” Della said. “And we had best stop rehashing old history and get ourselves ready. The master of hounds has just sent out the tufters. We shall soon have our quarry.”

“Jareth never told me what the quarry _was_ ,” Sarah said, as they drifted toward the rest of the fae.

“The oldest, strongest, most vicious wild boar they can find,” Deruthiel explained. “Enchanted by the harbourer – the one who finds the quarry – with extra speed and strength and cunning. Plus the ability to run through all the realms.”

“Oh. Great.” Sarah blinked.

“Most of us will never get near it,” Jareth said reassuringly. “It’s those trying to impress the High King who will try to spear the beast, or shoot it. The rest of us are here for the ride.”

Horses stamped and shuffled, clouds of frosty breath rising. The hounds milled about, respectful of the horses, but neither seemed afraid. Tension grew taut in the air, and Sarah found her horse slightly jostled by the crowd. All the fae were listening intently, keeping their excited horses in hand.

And then came the sound of a silver horn, and the far-off cry of a brace of hounds. The rest of the pack bayed response and set out in a flood of lithe, muscular bodies. Sarah saw the High King riding out just behind them, with his queen beside him just a shimmer of jewels as the horses and hounds kicked up the snow. Others followed, a grand masquerade on horseback, and soon enough it was Sarah’s turn to touch her heels to her horse’s flanks and click her tongue in encouragement.

They swept into motion, a flood of pageantry across the meadow and beneath the bare trees. The thunder of their horses’ hooves knocked icicles off the branches, and Sarah saw a few younger-looking fae catch those falling darts with merry laughter. Her heart began to race with exhilaration as they picked up speed, tearing through the woods. The path they followed was no road, just a deer trail, and ahead it was blocked by a huge log. Sarah’s horse leapt over it light as a feather, and she heard Della laughing behind her. Ahead, Iswyniel ducked beneath low-hanging branches, and Jarrek on her shoulder ducked too, though otherwise he might have been part of her cloak.

The cry of the pack was its own wild music, and they followed it out of the woods again, onto a country lane where deep ruts marked the passage of carts. There was a fence to be jumped as they turned onto the lane, and Sarah heard a commotion behind her. “Someone unhorsed already,” Deruthiel remarked, with some disdain.

On the more open road, they could ride three and four abreast. Much to Sarah’s amusement, Della immediately tried to outrace her son. Iswyniel and Deruthiel kept pace by Sarah as the pair of them galloped ahead. Other masked riders passed them as well, and some from further ahead began to fall back.

Sarah focused on keeping her balance at this fearsome pace. Excitement warmed her blood despite the sprinkles of snow falling on her shoulders, and her horse gusted out great breaths of steam as it pounded down the lane. They turned aside, leaping a huge deadfall into the forest, and a few moments later came back out into an open meadow. Down a hill, leaping a stone wall to a cobbled road, and Sarah saw two more masked and cloaked riders join the flank of the hunt. Something about them caught her attention, and she realized with a start that they were human. A second later the hunt flashed past a road sign in what she realized was Gaelic; they were Aboveground now, somewhere in Wales or Ireland.

They crossed back into fields, leaping fences and hedges, until an abrupt turn into thick, scrubby woods. The hounds ahead fell quiet, and the hunters slowed. Jareth drew up beside Sarah, his boar spear carefully couched. “They’ve lost the trail,” he remarked. “It will only be a few moments. Those are no mortal hounds.”

“Really? No kidding,” Sarah muttered sarcastically. She glanced over at the two humans who’d joined in, realizing now why faerie legends were so strong in Great Britain and Ireland. If there were still those who, in these modern high-tech times, rode with the Wild Hunt, of course belief would remain strong.

Ahead the hounds called, and the hunt moved off again. Out of the woods and into a flat, desolate country, where the ground smoked from hidden crevices and the snow melted as soon as it landed. Unwholesome steam surrounded them, and the pace slowed as the horses picked their way among sharp rocks and quaking earth. Sarah couldn’t place the geography as anywhere on Earth, though it looked somewhat volcanic to her, like the mud geysers in Yellowstone.

“’Ware!” someone called out ahead, and the hunt bunched up. There was a steep drop, full of clattering pebbles, and the horses took it one at a time to prevent catastrophic spills. Jareth went ahead of Sarah, murmuring, “Go slow, give him his head, and hold tight,” then took his own advice.

She followed cautiously, fingers bound in her mount’s mane and legs wrapped tight around its chest. She had to lean way back to help the horse balance, and breathed a sigh of relief when they finally reached level ground. Della came behind her, a little quicker than was sensible, and her red stallion covered the last five feet of the drop in a single jouncing bound that left Della chuckling.

Thiel followed, and Iswyniel, who muttered, “A silly risk,” to her daughter as they swung into motion again. Della smiled and shook her head, patting the horse’s neck. “Garafin has never put a foot wrong in his life, Mother,” she replied, and Sarah looked around in surprise. So that was the horse Thiel had given her as a nameday gift, when he courted her … still alive, five centuries later? By what magic?

There was no time to ask. The trail led along a muddy path, then turned up another bank, luckily not so steep. At the top, Sarah found herself in woods thick with the scent of fir and spruce, and looked behind her in surprise.

Just steps away, Thiel’s horse was climbing the bank from the ugly lands they’d just been in, but those looked hazy. All around, Sarah saw a forest that was nothing like the place they’d come from. She wondered, briefly, how the boar knew to change from realm to realm, and how the hunt managed to follow. But Jareth was calling her, and she rode to his side. “Keep close,” he warned, as she heard singing high in the trees above.

Glancing up, she saw slim bodies leaping from one branch to the next, the same gray-green as the trees, seen only as they moved. Another sort of dryad, she supposed, following along with the hunt. The singing made her sleepy, like Colleen the merrow’s song, and she shook herself, fixing her attention on Jareth.

He rode well, his back straight, the dark jeweled tones of his cloak standing out sharply among the muted colors of this forest. Even the goblin mask he wore looked noble, and Sarah thought – not for the first time – that she couldn’t have chosen a more beautiful example of a man.

As if he heard her thought, Jareth looked to her and smiled. That was when one of the figures in the trees swept down and tried to steal his mask.

A shout rose up from the rest of the hunt, but it had a note of laughter in it, as all the riders ducked. Even Iswyniel did so, though when one of those half-seen capering figures tried to leap toward her, it was met by a bolt of blue light that sprang up from her hand. The tree-fae squeaked and fled, and above them the singing faded away.

Ahead the trees thinned, and the hunt burst out of them to canter down a shallow slope. Much to Sarah’s shock, they crossed a paved asphalt road in a clatter of hooves. She glimpsed street signs, mailboxes, even houses – this was _her_ country now, somewhere in New England, and she heard the frantic barking of neighborhood dogs. The hunt crossed the road and plunged into a narrow belt of woodland, leaping a ditch where near-freezing water still ran chuckling over the stones.

They passed through more tangled thickets, plunged down steep banks and carefully crossed icy streams, galloped over gorgeous snowy meadows, and leaped every kind of hedge and fence Sarah could imagine. She began to notice that the hedges had great gaps in them, and the wooden fences had broken rails. Wild boars couldn’t jump as high as horses, apparently, but they had no problems simply bursting through obstacles.

Into the forest again, with snow falling around them, and the riders slowed. Ahead horns rang out while the pack had fallen silent; they’d lost the trail again. Jareth’s family slowed in a clearing with a few others, letting their horses circle and stamp to keep warm. Another of the fae rode up and passed over a flask, from which Iswyniel sipped before passing it to Deruthiel. When it was Sarah’s turn, Della warned her, “One sip only, Sarah. It’s potent.”

She’d had moonshine, once, but this … this deserved the moniker ‘white lightning’ much more. No other liquor had blossomed such intense heat in her belly, though it was smooth as spring water going down. Sarah blinked, managed not to cough, and passed it back, getting a grin of approval from the fae man who’d shared it with them.

Suddenly she heard the crinkling snap of icy branches breaking, and turned her horse toward the sound, as did the rest of their group. A massive dark shape crashed through the undergrowth and out into the clearing, coming to a startled halt. Time seemed to halt as Sarah stared.

Deruthiel had said ‘the largest wild boar they could find’, and this _had_ to qualify. The animal’s shoulder reared up to stirrup-height on the mounted riders; she couldn’t guess at its weight. She saw the bristling back dusted with snow, the furry ears quivering at attention, the long head turning back and forth as the rubbery nose scented them all. Small, savage eyes darted from one masked rider to the next. Then the boar champed at them, ivory tusks gnashing, and pawed the ground with one ridiculously dainty hoof.

Jareth, Deruthiel, and the other fae men moved forward, swinging their lances down so the leaf-shaped tips faced the boar with menacing intent. Della swung off to the side, bow at the ready, and Sarah saw one of the other fae women doing the same. She left her own weapon fastened to her back; this was no fight she wanted any part of. Her horse seemed to agree, getting behind the wall of spears quickly.

Sarah heard the bawl of excited hounds, and more crashing in the forest as the vanguard of the hunt approached. It would be too late, she thought, and from the corner of her eye she glimpsed Iswyniel moving to flank the archers.

Jareth’s horse reared, snorting, as the boar charged. He kept his seat and thrust downward with the spear, Deruthiel and the other men crowding in to protect the rest. Met by all those points, the boar whirled with startling dexterity, kicking up powdery snow. Della fired her bow, the arrow striking home in the boar’s hind quarters. It gave an enraged squeal and turned again, glaring wrathfully in her direction. Steam rose from its thick-furred hide and its tusked mouth as it pawed the ground again.

The hunt arrived, hounds baying at a shrieking pitch, and the boar sprang for them. Sarah saw one unfortunate hound go airborne, blood dancing in the air like rubies. The rest of the pack parted and then darted back in, dancing away from the vicious tusks.

In the middle of it all, the High King arrived, spear at the ready, but the boar’s back was to him and he had no shot. Instead the beast charged their group again, Della’s horse avoiding the slashing tusks only by a kicking leap that Sarah had never seen outside of Lipizzaner shows. She kept her seat, thankfully, but now the boar was too close amongst them, and Sarah herself had to hang on tight as her horse scrambled to get out of the way.

She was watching the boar as it snorted and pawed in rage, and amid the swirling white snow she saw a faintly warmer-toned shape. Silently, softly, a barn owl hovered above the furious boar, and with one graceful move it reached out and touched the boar’s ear. So swift and light, it seemed a gentle touch, but Sarah knew those talons were razor-sharp. They tore effortlessly through the boar’s ear, and it shrieked in pain and outrage.

The boar leapt, spinning in the air, and came down facing the High King and his hounds. The owl was gone, almost invisible in the snowy air, and the boar charged. The High King’s enormous horse side-stepped quickly, and his silver spear struck home, pinning the giant beast to the earth. The High King dismounted with swift grace, and knelt at the boar’s side. A flash of his knife, and the animal’s throat gushed, letting out its life quickly and cleanly.

Blood on the snow, vivid red in all this black and blue-toned white, and Sarah shivered for no reason she could name. _This_ was why they’d all come together, this moment of primal violence. It had the feeling of pagan ritual, of something so ancient all its translations had been lost, and the modern mind was struck dumb at the nameless force of it.

The High Queen had ridden to them in a rustle of velvet and furs, her gown and coat and hair bedecked with stones of size and clarity that would’ve made any Fifth Avenue jeweler weep for beauty. Sarah didn’t meet her eyes, wanting to avoid her attention, but the timeless inhuman beauty of her face lurked in Sarah’s peripheral vision. The High Queen plucked a lifeless twig from one of the nearby bushes. In her hands it budded and blossomed, verdant green leaves and soft yellow petals. She handed it wordlessly to her husband, who bent and placed the offering in the dead boar’s mouth. Sarah remembered hearing that it was a tradition in Europe and with some American hunters, to honor the fallen quarry with a bit of greenery, but the colors of life were strange to her eyes in this tableau of death.

Now the High King rose, and his huntsman moved in. Another knife flashed, and the boar was swiftly gutted, its entrails the reward of the faithful hounds. Sarah flinched from the gore, but was glad to see that the hound which had been tossed by the boar was in among the pack, snapping up its share with madly waving tail. Its shoulder was torn, though while she watched the huntsman stroked it gently, the wound disappearing.

Meanwhile the High King looked over the kill, and plucked the arrow from its haunch. “Whose shot is this?” he asked in that terrible, quiet voice.

“Mine, Your Majesty,” Della replied promptly, and swung lightly down from her horse. The High King held the arrow a moment, and Sarah saw it turn to silver, the boar’s blood on its point becoming a delicate spray of rubies. Della curtseyed, and accepted the token from the king’s hands, before remounting her horse.

Even as the huntsman propped open the steaming body of the boar with a few sticks, the High King was examining the rest of the corpse. “Several spears struck here,” he said at last. “Who claims the honor?”

Silence among the fae men, as they all looked at one another. Sarah remembered Jareth readying his lance first, but Deruthiel had been there too, and there were four others in the clearing with them, none of whom seemed eager to speak. Sarah could see the problem: none of the others would claim the honors due to Umardelin and Etaron, but Deruthiel did not wish to speak up when Cadelinyth had already won her arrow, and Jareth did not want to attract further attention to Umardelin.

Yet it was Jareth who spoke, finally. “Sire, I know not whose point struck first or furthest. All of us here lunged at once, not for glory but to protect our horses’ legs from the beast’s tusks.”

“Then hold out your spears, lords,” said the High King. “For there is honor in protecting that which relies upon you for its security.” All of the fae men did so, and he touched each point in turn with one bloody, gloved finger tip. The spear points and part of the shafts turned red-gold.

Sarah thought it was over, but then the High King spoke again. “Is there one amongst you for whom this kill is the first Hunt’s blood?” Sarah froze; it was her first hunt, period, and her first time with the Wild Hunt. Luckily one of the other fae came forward, and swung down from the saddle, removing his mask. He was a handsome young man – as most fae appeared to be for centuries – and what the High King did next sent a shiver through Sarah’s bones.

Gloved hands dipped into the blood still flowing, more slowly now, from the boar’s throat. And the new Hunter knelt, that the High King might more easily paint his face with that blood. It coated his features in a mask more gruesome than any had worn to the Wild Hunt, but he looked exalted by this honor.

It was one Sarah was happy not to share … and then the High King spoke her name. “Sarai, Queen of Umardelin. Is this not your first Hunt?”

 _Fuck fuck fuckity fuck,_ she thought wildly. She could feel Jareth’s eyes on her, Deruthiel and Cadelinyth as well. None of them could advise her now. She thought briefly back to the worst moments of stage-fright in her life, bright lights glaring down at her in front of a critical audience, but that wasn’t fear. That was to real fear as a quick, warm shower in her cozy apartment was to standing beneath an ice-cold waterfall and being drenched by its vicious deluge.

Still, she managed to knee her horse forward, and dismount without getting her dress caught on the saddle. “Yes, Your Majesty, this is my first Hunt,” she said in a voice that only shook slightly, as she unmasked and went to her knees before the High King. “I deserve no honor. I was only trying to get out of the way.”

She made the mistake of looking up again, and was caught by his eyes. Curious now, uncomprehending, and Sarah felt a deep chill that had nothing to do with the snow beneath her. The very last thing she wanted was _his_ interest … or _her_ jealousy, as the High Queen was watching her, too.

Suddenly the High King laughed. “Modesty, from a Queen?” he said, a chuckle like an avalanche in his tone. “The fae have never had much to do with humility; we are creatures of arrogance, and rightly so. Yet it is truth you speak, and we honor that. Beware, Umardelin, that she does not make your realm _too_ sensible.” Even as he spoke, he reached out and touched her cheek, painting a bloody stripe down to her jaw.

Now, finally, it was over. The rest of the Hunt caught up, the body of the boar was being lifted on poles to be carried back for a feast, and many flasks were being passed around. There was a general holiday air, into which Sarah was glad to escape, scrambling back into the saddle as Jareth held her horse.

With time to think at last, Sarah looked toward Iswyniel and saw Jarrek on her shoulder, fluffing his feathers as if he’d never left. The sorceress-queen gave her a quiet nod. That was all the approval Sarah needed from her.

The rest of the night was a party, the entire hunt proceeding back to what Jareth whispered was the High King’s own realm. Sarah felt the ancient magic shivering in the very air, older than even Umardelin, and kept her growing powers tightly reined in. She wanted no part of this place. They rode from deep winter forest directly into the forecourt of an enormous castle, the entire party doffing their masks and cloaks as they entered. The great hall was a dizzying vision, its dimensions seeming even larger than the outside of the building suggested, and there again Sarah tasted magic beyond her ken. Later on, she would not be able to describe the hall, even her dauntless New York City heart overwhelmed by the power and grandeur on display.

But Jareth was beside her, taking her hand, and Della and Thiel were on her other side, with Iswyniel and Jarrek (still an owl on her shoulder) beyond. She was in good company as they sat down to the feast, and no one needed to warn her to drink sparingly of the wine. It was a richer vintage than she was accustomed to, and getting drunk here would be absolute folly.

The High King toasted the hunt, and all of the hunters, and his Queen toasted the valiant quarry, the brave horses and hounds. No further mention was made of Umardelin, and Sarah let relief flood through her at that. She felt like a child, accidentally seated with the adults at a formal holiday dinner, and her hand crept into Jareth’s. He smiled, and kissed her, and for once didn’t mock.

Twelve courses later, the intimidation softened a little by excellent food and strong wine and Della’s easy conversation, Sarah was glad enough to return to the bitter cold, mount her horse, and hasten back to Umardelin. They parted from Jareth’s family, each returning to their own realms, though she made a point to turn and bow from the saddle to both Iswyniel and Jarrek. “It was my pleasure to meet you both,” she told them.

“And ours,” the sorceress replied, as Jarrek fluffed himself and twittered. That brought a smile to Sarah’s lips, and to Iswyniel’s, just before they all crossed the portals to go home.

The walls of the Labyrinth rose up around them, and suddenly Sarah could breathe again, expelling a cloud of frosty air that tasted like comfort. “Okay,” she sighed, and then turned to Jareth, her eyes wide. “And you pissed _them_ off? Jeez! I love you, Jareth, but you are a stone fucking _idiot_.”

“I _was_ an idiot,” he corrected, and shook his head. “Do note, I was the very picture of humility today.”

“That you were,” Sarah replied, and nudged her horse close enough to catch another kiss. “On the whole, humble isn’t a good look for you, though. Unless we’re dealing with the uber-scary ancient fae, you can be my arrogant jackass king, all right?”

“So long as you are my stubborn defiant queen – and I know you always will be,” he laughed back, and all was well with the world again.

 


End file.
